There they stood — the shining bastards of Heaven.
Fifty in all, a phalanx of celestial arrogance, their armor dripping gold, their halos dimmed only by the blood that slicked their edges.
The heads of demons hung from their spears like trophies, their horns clinking faintly in the sulfurous wind.
Torn wings — the wings of Fallen — adorned their pauldrons, fluttering weakly, whispering of betrayal and slaughter. Each movement they made was a sermon of conquest, a declaration that Heaven's will had come to scour what remained of Hell's resistance.
And at their head, standing before them like the storm given flesh, was one Atlas knew well — the demigod who had once reduced Babylon to ash.
The Son of Zeus.
Golden lightning crawled across his skin, threading through the air like veins of wrath.
His eyes burned white, sightless with divinity, yet seeing all that Atlas had built — and mocking it.
